


On Fire Now

by maxette



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Breaking Up & Making Up, Canon Compliant, Endgame Niall Horan/Harry Styles, Fluff and Angst, Jealous Harry, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Public Sex, both the boys top and bottom, can you say that with RPF?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 13:35:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxette/pseuds/maxette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Harry and Niall break up, angst and pine, and finally get it together.</p><p>OR</p><p>One of what I hope will be many "Happily" songfics because it's just begging for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Fire Now

**Author's Note:**

> **Apology One:** Not Brit-picked except what I remember from studying abroad in London a couple years ago. If you would like to Brit-pick for me I would probably send you cake.
> 
>  **Apology Two:** I wrote this with the assumption that Harry and Taylor Swift dated from November 2012 - January 2013 because some website said so EVEN THOUGH THAT DOESN’T REALLY ADD UP because “Trouble” is supposed to be about Harry and that came out in October 2012?? But I don’t actually care so. :-/ The timeline is probably a big mess in terms of reality and I hope that doesn’t turn anybody off. It’s very internally consistent for what that’s worth!
> 
>  **Apology Three:** I've been a 1D fan for like a month so. Um. Hi! Hoping I didn't miss anything huge, canon or fanon. Please enjoy!

**So we had to walk away**

“We can’t do this anymore.”

The moment the words were out of his mouth, Harry wanted to take them back. Niall bowed his head, scratched his hand across the back of his neck, like he was trying to shield his face from Harry, like he wanted to _hide_ from him, which he’d never done before. Then he started to nod.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yes. I know.”

Harry kneeled down so his face was level with Niall’s, still facing down at his lap.

“You know it’s not—”

“It’s amazing that we got away with it as long as we have,” Niall said.

That was true enough, but hearing him say it still hit him like a knife in between his ribs.

“Suppose we can get away with it for one more night?”

“Harry, I don’t think that’s a very—” Harry put his hands on Niall’s knees and squeezed. “—good—” Finally, _finally_ Niall looked at him. He wasn’t crying, not quite yet. He was trying very hard to look serious and firm. That fell apart quickly, though, and he put his hands on Harry’s face and drew him close enough to kiss. “One more night. We deserve that.”

Harry closed his eyes and breathed him in.

They deserved a lot more than that, but they didn’t have a lot of options here. As much as they’d made a point about being true to themselves, no styling, no media training, just five simple lads who did what they liked and happened to be adored for it—and as much as that was true, really—you had to make sacrifices to be a part of one of the biggest names in music.

For example, Niall had gotten braces. Niall could never stop bleaching his hair. And now Niall was losing—Christ, whatever this wonderful _thing_ between them had been, this thing Harry had refused to ever put a name to because all the options seemed so small and incomplete. Yeah, Niall had gotten the short end of the fame stick and the last thing Harry had ever wanted to do was add to that.

But here they were.

 

 

**We were meant to be**

It started on the Up All Night tour, after Caroline, on the road in England, in the middle of winter.

Or maybe it started the moment they met. Harry remembered boot camp, noticing Niall for the first time. It was long after everyone else had noticed him. They were all in a big dance rehearsal room, taking a break after working with a choreographer. Niall was playing the guitar, leading half the people in the room in a sing-along of “Empire State of Mind,” the Alicia Keys-only version that had been playing on the radio nonstop. Harry remembered thinking, _I want you to look at me the way they’re all looking at you_.

He leaned on the mirror barre and just listened for a while. After the second chorus, Niall jumped in with one of the raps from the original song and did impressively well with it. When he was finished, everyone applauded instead of singing the chorus again, so Harry took the opportunity to sing it solo, giving it everything he had.

Niall’s gaze shot to him and held, giving him a grin just a little bit brighter than the ones he had been handing out like Cracker Jack prizes. _Bingo_ , Harry thought, warmth filling him from his belly.

That wasn’t normal for Harry. Even in the first blush of best friendship with Louis, Harry hadn’t felt the same need to impress that he had with Niall. Niall didn’t make anyone work for his appreciation which somehow made Harry want to work all the harder.

It was on tour, though, that Harry first realized how much he wanted to get in Niall’s pants. The bus was stopped for petrol on their way from Liverpool to Newcastle. The filling station was next to a big, empty field and even though it was five degrees out and the grass was muddy and dusted with frost, Niall immediately grabbed a football, hopped the fence and started kicking it around. Liam followed him straight away and Harry made Louis come out with him so they could play a little two-on-two. Zayn came out, too, wrapped in a blanket, and shouted at them.

Paul gave them an hour to run around before he made them get back on the bus. Niall stripped down to his briefs as he walked inside, and collapsed on the first bed he passed, which happened to be Harry’s, still a tangle of sheets from sleeping in it the night before. Harry opened his mouth to tell him to get his own bed, but his gaze raked over Niall: out of breath, sweat slipping down recently defined muscles, pale skin, covered in freckles . . . gorgeous and looking like Harry had just given him the ride of his life, which he definitely had not because he wouldn’t be so blindingly hard right now if he had.

“Shove over,” Harry said nudging Niall’s side with his knee.

Niall wiggled closer to the wall. Harry got his shirt off as quick as he could and lay down next to him.  

“You’re getting my sheets all sweaty,” Harry grumped.

“Like that’s new, tiger!” Niall said, elbowing him. “Eh?”

Harry leaned over him. “First time it’s your sweat.”

Niall laughed. Harry smiled a little because it was hard not to reciprocate, but this wasn’t funny. Harry ran his hand over Niall’s forehead, pushing his hair back. “You’re lucky you smell good.”

“I do?”

“I wonder if you taste good, too,” Harry said, really wondering where these God-awful lines were coming from because he wasn’t usually so obvious.

Niall didn’t laugh at that, though. “Test, uh—” His chest heaved with a deep breath. “—test it out?”

Harry didn’t need another opening. _Nothing to worry about_ , he thought as he ducked down. He could still play this off as a joke if it was horrible.

It was, a bit—too dry, too hard. Which was fine. _Bad idea to try something with one of the lads, anyway,_ he thought, as he drew back. Harry opened his mouth to laugh it off when Niall said, “Oh, no you don’t,” grabbed him by the back of his neck, and pulled him back in.

This time Niall was meticulous, somehow tailor-made to please Harry, starting off slow and gentle and gradually getting messy, more desperate, just the way Harry liked, bringing in more tongue, sucking on his lower lip, making these little noises like he couldn’t help himself, running his hands everywhere he could reach.

Harry pulled back again, to suck in a breath, though Niall wouldn’t let him go far, and he realized the bed curtain was wide open. He stuck his head out and looked around, trying to assess if anyone had seen them. The shower was going, presumably with Zayn in it, as Louis and Liam were lying about the back of the bus. “Having a nap, Harry?” Louis called out, catching sight of him, no mockery in his voice.

“Yep!” Harry called back, pulled the curtain all the way closed and thumbed on the reading lamp.

Niall grinned at him, tugging Harry’s pants and trousers down to his thighs. Niall ran a feathery touch down his spine and in between his arse cheeks and then brought his hand around to take Harry’s cock in a firmer grip. Harry groaned—Niall was really good at this, stroking him with a kind of corkscrew twist that was somehow so much better than anyone had ever used on him before that Harry was already close, almost lightheaded with how good he felt.

Harry dropped down onto his side so he could stop holding himself up. He nosed his way up Niall’s throat until his mouth connected with Niall’s again, using all the rest of his focus to get his hand on Niall’s cock and stroke him. Harry couldn’t manage to match the rhythm of what Niall’s doing to him and settled for doing his basic up-and-down, a little embarrassed that it had to feel less good than when Niall just wanked himself—but then Niall was stuttering out his name, trembling in his arms, like he was just as overwhelmed by Harry’s touch as Harry was by Niall’s, so maybe this was just _them_ , the power of human connection—and then they were both coming, gasping into each other’s open mouths.

Harry caught his breath and wrapped his arms tight around Niall. Niall squirmed a little and Harry quickly let him go. He couldn’t believe it, but maybe Niall didn’t like a cuddle after sex.

“No, no,” Niall said, grinning. He was all pink and damp and more beautiful than ever. “Your _face_.” Niall gave him a quick kiss. “I just want to—” He pulled Harry’s pants and jeans off with some struggle, threw them at the end of the bed, and thrust one leg in between Harry’s, settling back under his arm. “—have some flexibility.”

“Lovely, so now we’re both naked in my bed at half-noon. That was a great plan.”

“You forgot filthy and covered in come.”

Harry grimaced. “Give me your shirt.”

“No! Where’s your shirt?”

Harry attacked his sides with tickling fingers.

None of them were adverse to going around in just their pants, or to taking naps together, so in a little while he and Niall managed to untangle themselves and move on with their day without a sideways look from anyone.

Harry wondered if that would be both the start and the end of it, but his skin was buzzing with new awareness through the whole show that night and, when he got into bed, everything smelled of Niall, musky and citrusy. Harry lay there a minute, stroking his cock without much intention of getting off because why not join Niall in his bed if he wanted sex? He was right there, four feet above him.

 _Why not?_ Harry thought, wracking his mind.

He couldn’t think of a thing. Niall was waiting for him, naked and hard and golden under the dim light, making just about the most perfect picture Harry had ever seen.

  

  

**A twist of fate**

It ended nine months later, at the 2012 VMAs. MTV had gone all out for them, giving them each their own dressing room, as if any of them wanted that, filled to bursting with flowers, sweets, not-so-minibar, loot from the sponsors, massive flat screen and hundreds of video games. Harry never saw his room. He spent twenty minutes mucking around in Louis’s and then he went to Niall’s because he wanted a cuddle.

He would have gone to Niall for a cuddle before they were shagging, but now that they were, it was hard to keep it to just cuddling. Harry had to be really sleepy, and even then, they might as well get naked and snog a bit, right? And let it build if it would. Sure enough, within five minutes of Harry jumping on top of Niall on the couch, their clothes were on the floor and Harry was lying in between Niall’s legs, gagging on his cock. They didn’t usually do this in dressing rooms—anyone could come in, even a lucky, ambitious fan, but Harry wasn’t ashamed to say that he went a little crazy when it came to Niall. He was a _little_ ashamed to say that he got off rutting on Niall’s leg about five minutes before Niall came all over his face, but it all felt so good, he wasn’t going to complain. Honestly, the orgasms he had without Niall even touching him were better than some of his kinkiest one-offs.

On the side table was a stack of cashmere blankets. Harry used one to clean them up a little and then threw another one over them so they could get to the cuddling that Harry had intended.

Not long after that there was a knock at the door. It was a jovial knock, familiar, friendly, not like the tech crew would have done, or any press that managed to get back stage. That’s the only reason Harry can think of he that he yelled out, "Come in!" without a second thought, pulling the throw a bit higher on Niall’s chest for modesty.

The face that appeared was friendly, but not someone who Harry had ever wanted seeing him half naked.

"Simon!" he said, his voice embarrassingly high.

The grin slipped off Simon Cowell’s face and then immediately reappeared, wider than ever, as he spun back around. "Whoops! Get some trousers on, Niall, I've got _Rolling Stone_ out here!" He shut the door behind him.

 _Shit, fuck!_ Harry scrambled off of Niall, grabbing the first top he put his hands on, which was Niall’s, he realized as he wrenched it over his head, but what did it matter? He doubted anyone at _RS_ , who were not their biggest fans, would recognize his usual style, anyway.

“Haha!” Niall called out, reaching for his briefs. “One minute, Simon!”

Harry had never gotten dressed so quickly. Harry’s shirt looked more ridiculous on Niall than his did on Harry—it was too loose, one of Harry’s with a low neck, just begging for a couple of sparrows to be peeking out below his collar bones.

Niall grabbed him by the back of the neck and kissed him hard. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay, right?”

Harry nodded and Niall swung open the door with a huge grin.

“And Harry, too,” the lady from _RS_ said, clapping her hands together. “What are you doing in here when Niall has his pants off?”

Christ, the British press would _never_. Harry forced himself to stay loose and smiling. “Why not?”

All she wanted was a few quotes for the magazine’s coverage of the awards and she was on her way in less than five minutes. Simon showed her out and then turned back to them.

“Have a good show tonight, guys. Will you still be in L.A. tomorrow?” They both nodded. “Meet me for lunch, would you? Just you two. Spago, one-thirty.” He smiled warmly, but it was obvious they’d go laser beam-warm if they argued. “Great. See you then.”

And then they were alone again.

Niall folded himself in half, practically putting his head between his knees and breathing like he’d run a marathon.

“Are you having a panic attack?” Harry said, reaching out, but hovering above his back, nervous that touching him would make it worse.

“No,” Niall choked out. “I’m okay. Everything’s okay.”

Another knock shook the door, this one hard and fast, clearly tech crew. “Thirty minutes,” someone shouted.

Niall stood up. “We have to get ready.”

Without stopping to think about it, Harry took Niall by the arms and backed him up against the door—let someone try to get through it and interrupt them now!—pressing against every inch of his body against him, and then kissing him slowly, thoroughly, like they had all the time in the world for this.

The next day, the hostess at Spago led them to a secluded table where Simon was waiting for them, a few stacks of paper spread across his place setting. He put that away as he asked about their families and ordered for them, including a three tall glasses of stout from a local brewery. He congratulated them and passed on the praises of practically every famous person Harry could think of while they waited for their food, but once their waiter had checked that everything was satisfactory and bowed away, Simon got to the point.

“I hope you know I have no problem with this, personally. At this table, as your mentor, I'm thrilled for you. But you have to be smart about this, boys. If this is going to be a story, be Posh and Becks. Be Brad and Angelina.”

“Does it have to be a story?” Harry said quietly, even as he knew how naïve he sounded. Larry Stylinson was brought up at every other interview they had and it wasn’t even true.

Niall squeezed his knee under the table. “Can’t we just be—us?”

Simon took a deep breath. “For now? Sure. When the public finds out? No way. You won’t be _a_ story; you’ll be _the_ story—for months. And then for years, _this_ will be One Direction,” Simon said, gesturing between them. “Every article will come back to you. Every sound bite will be about your relationship first, and then maybe about your new single if they have time to fit that in. Do you understand? I honestly think we could play it so this wouldn’t hurt your career. You could get bigger than ever. But you would always be the boy band with that gay couple—the happy, healthy, _committed_ gay couple, okay? That would be essential—family values. You remember when Lance Bass came out?” They both nodded, of course. “If Lance was an apple, you two will be—” Simon paused, considering, and Harry expected the word _pineapple_ to come. “—an orchard. There’s absolutely no getting around it.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that and, from his silence, neither did Niall.

Simon reached across the table and took them both by the shoulder. “I’m not trying to scare you. I’m not trying to _stop_ you. I just want you to know what you’re getting into.”

Three weeks later, Harry was on the front page of every American tabloid next to Taylor Swift. He first caught sight of it while buying lunch with her at Bristol Farms. “Ugh,” she said, covering one of the tabs with her hand.

 _Thank you_ , he thought as he kissed her cheek. _I’m sorry_.

That was a good story. Simple. Expected. When would he break her heart? What kind of song would she write a song about him? That story sat comfortably to the side of everything more important about One Direction.

Taylor was wonderful and she deserved a lot better than what he had to give right now, which was that story, a story he hoped would help her career as much as it did his.

  

  

**Feel my traces in your hair**

“I want to get a tattoo,” Niall had whispered into Harry’s ear months earlier, the morning after their last stop on the Up All Night tour.

Niall woke him up with this. It was June and they were in Florida, in a massive suite at the Ritz, the AC set to freezing. It was still dark outside and, as Harry took in Niall’s wide grin and boozy breath, it was obvious he hasn’t been to bed yet.

Harry brought one hand to Niall’s head and rubbed his eyes with the other. “Come again?”

“Don’t you think it’s time? Don’t you think it’d be hot?”

Those weren’t very good reasons to get a tattoo, but Harry really wasn’t one to talk about good reasons. Niall had held out for so long, though, Harry really didn’t want him to get his first on a drunken lark.

“You’re always hot,” was all Harry said.

“I’m really cold at the moment,” Niall said, sounding sleepy now. “Why’s it like an icebox in here?”

“Don’t know how to work the thermostat.”

Harry wrenched the thick down comforter out from under Niall and spread it over him, moved him so they fit against each other, and he could wrap his arms around him. “Sleep a little, Ni, and we’ll talk about a tattoo in the morning, yeah?”

Niall snuffled and kissed Harry’s arm, murmured a few words of the already half-asleep.

When Harry woke up again, it was nearly noon, the room was at a nice, normal temperature, and there was a note on the pillow next to him: _come for room service at Z’s whenever you wake up xx N_. Harry splashed some water on his face, ran a toothbrush around his mouth, and dutifully went two rooms down the hall, not bothering with shoes or a shirt—or his room key, he remembered too late, but Niall probably had his. Inside, Louis and Liam were playing FIFA on one couch and Niall was curled up next to Zayn on the other, a big sketchpad spread over both their laps. There was some bacon and a bunch of fresh cut fruit laid out on the coffee table and Harry took a sampling in both hands and sat down next to Niall.

“Have you slept?” Harry asked him, pressing a mango-sticky kiss to his neck.

“Not enough,” Zayn put in.

“I’ll sleep in a bit,” Niall said. “After I get a tattoo!” He smacked a kiss to Harry’s mouth and bounced up, grabbing up the room phone.  “What do you want to eat? The pancakes are really good, so’s the omelet.”

“Pancakes,” Harry agreed and Niall dialed. Harry leaned toward Zayn. “Is he still drunk?”

“Nah,” Zayn said, not looking up from where he was drawing a variation on a flame that was scattered around the page.

“You going to let him get a tattoo?”

“Why shouldn’t he?”

“Dunno,” Harry said, and he really didn’t know why he had any qualms about this at all. Why shouldn’t Niall get a tattoo? Maybe because he never seemed interested before, going into tattoo studios dozens of times while the rest of them got ink without even playing with the idea of getting one himself.

“You drawing something for him to use?” Zayn hummed and smiled a little. Harry grinned. “That’s quite nice.” Harry lifted up some of the flipped-over pages to look at new designs. “What’s that?” he said, pointing. It looked a bit like a lowercase _n._

Zayn coughed. “It’s a heth—an _H_ in the Hebrew alphabet.”

“Ah. For ‘Horan,’ you suppose?”

“Sure,” Zayn said, hiding a smile behind his hand. “Makes sense.”

Niall dropped back down between them. “Pancakes on the way. And some beignets and some sausages and some chips.”

“Thanks, babe.” Harry put his arm around Niall’s shoulders and scratched his hand through his hair. “So where do you want this tattoo?”

“Here,” Niall said, bringing his hand up to meet Harry’s at the back of his head.

“You realize you’ve got hair here.”

“Well, we’ve got a bit of a break right now; I can shave it. And then . . . I don’t want to make a big thing of this. I don’t want it to be for everyone. How many times have you been asked about yours? Asked to explain _why_? This is just for me. Just for—” He linked his fingers through Harry’s around his neck. “—us.”

Niall was so damn beautiful. He had the most beautiful mouth, and the most beautiful voice. For a moment Harry thought he would burst with how beautiful he was. He only realized how long he’d been staring at Niall, silently smiling at him, when a pillow slapped Harry in the face and Louis shouted, “Gross!”

Niall breathed out a laugh and tucked his head under Harry’s.

“I want the heth,” Niall said, poking at Zayn’s shin with his toe. “Tell me when you’re happy with it and I’ll take that to the tattoo studio. Someone want to find a good place in Fort Lauderdale?”

“No, no,” Harry said. “You’re not going to get your first tattoo in America, in a state shaped like a penis, when we’ll be back in England in two days. You’ll go to see Kev.”

Kevin Paul had done all of Harry’s English-born tattoos, and some for each of the other lads, as well. Harry privately wondered if this interest in a tattoo would last the time it would take to get to Kev, but he was also the only person east of L.A. that he’d trust to put a needle to Niall’s virgin skin.

“Yeah!” Liam said. “We’ll all take a road trip down to Derby.”

Niall’s interest did last and a few days later they all piled into Zayn’s car and went to get Niall a tattoo. The night before, Harry shaved bare a two-by-two-inch patch of skin from the bottom right corner of Niall’s hair. He had a month to heal and for his hair to grow back before they were booked solid again with promotion for _Take Me Home._ Zayn had finalized a gorgeous, simple heth letter, shaded from blue to orange. He’d already texted a photo of it to Kev, who usually inked his own designs, and who said he’d be happy to do it.

They timed it perfectly. They got him on a plane to Ireland without any photos of his telltale bandage getting on the internet and his hair had grown back by the time he was back in the public eye. “All healed up?” Harry asked him three days before they’d see each other again.

“Yep,” Niall said. “It feels good.”

“How’s it look?”

“No clue!” he laughed. “It’s your tattoo, really. You’re the only one who’s going to see it.”

In fact, the only way for even Harry to see it was to run his fingers through Niall’s hair, which made the shape of the letter appear in overlapping sections, like a flipbook, the colors flashing between the soft brown hair. “I had an ulterior motive,” Niall said once. “I love it when you play with my hair.”

Harry kissed the back of his neck and kissed his way over to his ear and across his jaw to his mouth, keeping one hand running through Niall’s hair. He was happy to oblige.

  

  

**1, 2, 3**

It wasn’t hard to be friends after they broke up—real friends, easy friends. In public, where Harry already knew well not to kiss him or stare at him too long, it almost felt the same. He gave all the credit to Niall. If it had been up to him, there would have been nothing but awkward silences and longing looks, he was sure of it. Niall always said it wouldn’t be a problem, right from the beginning.

They managed to get caught snogging in the tiny bus loo about a day after they first fell into bed together. Liam walked in on them and gasped like a soap opera star, drawing Louis and Zayn over to see what was so scandalizing in the toilet. They all had a good laugh about it, none better than Niall as Harry tried to hide his face against Niall’s chest, but the other lads eventually left them alone to get off, finally. A few hours later, though, Liam interrupted them watching _Family Guy_ in Niall’s bunk and stood there watching them, gripping the privacy curtain in his fist, for a long while before finally managing to say, “I don’t mean to sound melodramatic, but I want to have a band meeting about—er—”

“You shagging,” Louis said, putting his head on Liam’s shoulder for half a second and then disappearing again.

“Er, yes, that. If you don’t mind. Back of the bus when you’re, like—done?”

Liam blushed, as if watching a cartoon, fully dressed, was something very dirty. He smiled at them for a moment longer and then ran away.

“I mind,” Harry told Niall immediately.

“No, you don’t,” Niall said, and kissed his nose. When they finished the episode Harry refused to leave the bunk, staying a dead weight as Niall dragged him onto the floor and down the hallway between their bunks to couch in the back where Liam, Louis, and Zayn were all waiting for them. Harry huffed and sat down like a grownup, but refused to be the one to start this conversation. He raised an eyebrow around the circle.

“What if you break up?” was the first thing out of Liam’s mouth.

“We’re not even _together_ ,” Harry said because they _weren’t_ , they’d fooled around a few times, Harry wasn’t even sure if they’d do it again, he was thinking about going out to pull a girl tonight, for God’s sake, “We’re just—”

 “We’re _not_ ,” Niall cut in, “but if we stop shagging, then _nothing_. I’ve fancied him since the moment I set eyes on him—”

Harry turned and stared at him. “You _have_?”

“And I handled that just fine. I’ll handle shagging him just fine and I’ll handle not shagging him again just fine _again_.”

“Sure, _you_ will,” Louis said, “but what about Harry?”

Harry kicked him in the shin and turned a leer on Niall. “I think I’ll handle you a bit better than _fine_ , Nialler.”

“Guys!” Liam said. “You really think this won’t fuck with our energy?”

“I’m telling you, it’s no different for me,” Niall said. “Same sauce on the stove as always, higher temperature.”

That wasn’t a perfect metaphor if you thought about it, because sauces boiled over, they boiled down and burnt the bottom of the pan, but this one was self-sustaining, evidentially, this _want_ Niall had for Harry that he’d never felt the need to bring up before. In any case, that was enough for the lads and that was the end meeting.

Later (Harry decided not to find someone else, in the end), after Harry had licked him open, and fucked him so long his legs started to tremble, and they were lying sweaty and languid, entwined together, Harry said, “So you’ve really wanted me as long as we’ve known each other?”

“Sure, me and the thousands of girls who’ve been following us since _X-Factor_. Is it really such a surprise?”

Was he mad, thinking that was the same thing? “ _Yes_. Why did you never say anything?”

“I suppose—” Niall hummed thoughtfully. “—it was enough.”

Harry thought about that, running his hand through Niall’s hair. He had never pined over someone before. He pretty much had his pick, especially now, and he’d gotten used to taking who he wanted and letting them go when he didn’t want them anymore. No pain, no fuss. At the time, he was happy that Niall felt that way. Shagging your best mate, not to mention your band mate, should have been messy—it should have been disastrous, really, he knew that, not that Harry was going to let that stop him when he wanted this so much—so it was lucky Niall had a tested history of dealing with it.

Eleven months later, he hated himself for what an idiot he’d been. Louis had been spot on—Niall was fine, but _what about Harry?_

Harry knew what pining felt like now.

It was _enough_ , like Niall said. Being his friend was enough—he knew what it felt like not being around Niall at all and that was worse than being close and not able to touch him.

At least a little worse.

Harry slipped up all the time. Not in big ways—he knew how to hide his feelings better than he knew how to sing “What Makes You Beautiful” at this point. But in small, private ways . . .

One morning when they were all sharing a suite of rooms in a hotel New York, Harry stumbled sleepily into the bathroom and found Niall brushing his teeth at the sink. He slipped his arms around his waist and kissed the sweet, smooth curve of his neck to his shoulder, opened his mouth to bite it before he woke up a little more and remembered he wasn’t allowed to do this. For a moment he was frozen, holding Niall, mouth open around his skin, tongue almost, _almost_ touching him. Then he jumped away, rubbing his face with his hands. “Sorry, sorry!” he said, as Niall left the bathroom without a word, toothbrush still in his mouth. Harry did his best to keep on as normal, had a piss, washed his face, brushed his teeth, and then went back to bed because they had some time before they had to do anything, his palms vibrating with the brief feel of Niall beneath them. He hovered in front of Niall’s room, considering apologizing again, when he realized he could hear him through the door, hear him—shit, _wanking_ , the slick sound of skin on skin, whimpering into his pillow. Harry all but ran into his own room to get his hands on his cock, knowing that Niall was so close, doing the same thing, making getting off _so much better_ than it had been in weeks.

One interview they were sitting next to each other. Harry didn’t even realize what he was doing until Louis leaned into Harry’s other side to hiss, “Quit it!” Niall jostled his leg and Harry realized he’d been playing with the loose threads around the hole in the knee of his jeans and, at this point, had his hand most of the way inside the hole, now running his fingers over the soft skin across the back of his knee. Niall was hard, his cock bulging a little obscenely at his zipper. Harry had no idea how to extricate himself gracefully now that he was aware of what he was doing, until his finger slipped and Niall giggled. He ran a few more feather light touches across his skin and Niall broke down laughing. “Ticklish lad,” Harry said to the interviewer, smirking, and pulling his hand away. What pranksters they were, those One Direction boys.

One late night when they were all at home in London, he and Niall were lying mostly on top of each other watching a film at Louis’ when Harry decided to go to bed. He cupped his hand around Niall’s cheek and kissed him. It was a big kiss, long and languid, before Harry remembered. This was his favorite thing, kissing Niall, and he wasn’t allowed to do it any longer.

“Sorry,” he said, standing up.

“Are you guys back—?” Liam said.

“No!” Harry said. “My mistake, I—I’m so sorry, Niall. I’m sorry.”

Zayn followed him out of the room and shoved him hard on the shoulder. “You have to cut this shit out.”

“I’m trying!”

“Try harder, Harry. You’ve got his heart in your hand, you know that. He’s trying to move on, but when you—”

“He is? With who?” Harry wracked his brain. He’d seen Niall with some girls when they went out, but never for long, never the same girl twice.

“With Josh,” Zayn said like that was obvious.

“Josh who?” Josh could be a girl’s name? Probably, but—who—? He was being slow about this, he recognized that later. He’d just never considered Niall would move on with another guy. What was the point of all this if he was going to keep risking being outed? He felt himself go numb, mind and body both. “Wait, _our_ Josh? Our drummer Josh? No!”

“Yes!” Zayn said, smacking him on the forehead.

“But—I haven’t noticed anything.”

“Because Josh knows the meaning of _discretion_ and that. You idiot. You’ve got to stop making this so difficult.”

Harry wasn’t sure what was written on his face, but whatever it was made Zayn scoff and pull him into a hug. He closed his eyes and let himself be comforted for a little while, surprised at how much it _hurt_ to relax his back muscles, at how hard he had been working to make this okay.

“Stop making this so difficult for you both,” Zayn said softly.

  

  

 **You don't understand** **what you do to me when you hold his hand**  

Harry did not stop. If anything, when he started noticing evidence of Niall and Josh, he got worse. He certainly felt worse. Unconsciously, Harry had broken up with Niall with the assumption that he wouldn’t move on, the way Harry knew he couldn’t move on himself. Maybe he’d get a girlfriend, someone he’d look good with at parties, but he wouldn’t find anyone he really wanted. He wouldn’t find someone to compare with Harry.

A part of him, small but powerful, like the core of the earth, had thought that they were only on pause. He’d thought that Niall would keeping loving him for the next decade, while the band was still a big deal in their lives, and, hopefully, in the world. Then, when the other lads started having babies and their careers weren’t so important, he and Niall would press play again.

But Niall had skipped to the next song.

Harry started having fantasies of gluing Josh’s hands to drumsticks so he could still do his job, and probably eat and get by in life, but not touch Niall, not ever. Then he thought of Niall helping Josh do what he couldn’t do with stick hands, like bathe, or have a wank, and Harry felt even _worse_.

He had a history being jealous over Niall. When they first started shagging, Harry had every intention of shagging other people, as well. What he had with Niall wasn’t serious, he thought then. It was just a bit of fun between mates. Why not have as much fun as possible, with anyone who was interested?

Because it drove Harry mad when Niall had fun with anyone else, as it turned out.

They were in America, on tour with Big Time Rush. Tonight was Detroit and all Harry had seen of this undoubtedly fine city was the inside of the Fox Theater and the club that Kendall and the BTR lads had dragged them all to. Harry and Niall didn’t discuss that they’d be going their separate ways that night, just saluted each other at the door and went. Hours later, Harry was waiting in a surprisingly long line for the men’s toilets and saw a couple of blokes, connected at the mouth, stumbling toward a back room that Harry had watched several couples disappear into.

The darker one stopped halfway down the hallway to press the blonde against the wall. Harry realized he was staring and made himself stop. Then he realized that the blonde was Niall, his gaze jerking back. He didn’t realize he had strode over to them, grabbed the stranger off of Niall and shoved him away until he found himself standing in between them like some kind of rescuing prince. The stranger looked about ready to punch him and Harry glared at him, breathing hard, eager for the excuse to punch him back.

“Er,” Niall said, cautiously stepping in front of Harry and patting his new friend on the chest. “Why don’t you head back there and I’ll meet you in a bit?” The guy opened his mouth to protest and Niall raised an eyebrow at him. “It’s that or it’s off, mate.”

Licking his lips, the guy nodded and slowly left them alone. Niall turned toward Harry and smoothed his hands down Harry’s arms. “Hey,” he said. He kissed Harry’s cheek and moved his hands up to Harry’s hair, petting him. “Having a good night?”

“I was,” Harry said. He took a deep breath. “You?”

Niall shrugged. “All right.”

“Don’t,” Harry whispered.

Niall stared at him steadily. “Why? Tell me why I shouldn’t.”

“Because thinking of someone else touching you makes me feel like a psychopath, Ni. I want to rip that bloke’s prick off and stuff it down his throat. I know that’s not—”

“Tell me I’m yours.”

Harry’s breath caught. Niall was dead serious. “You’re mine,” he said softly and then, more loudly, again, “You’re mine, Niall Horan.”

Niall breathed out a laugh, leaned his head on Harry’s shoulder. “I feel like the bloody velveteen rabbit.” Harry didn’t understand that reference, but he went with it. “Okay, I won’t get with anyone else.”

It was like a dumbbell had been lifted off his chest. He thought he could fly around the room he felt so good. “Okay! I won’t, either.” It was only fair.

“No, Harry, you don’t have to promise that. You can fuck anyone you want to. Just promise that you won’t forget that I’m yours.”

Harry laughed. “Are you sure?” Niall nodded. “Okay, I promise.” It was the easiest promise to make ever—he’d revel in it. Niall gave him the sweetest little smile. “Mine, then?”

Niall’s gaze turned hot, zinging through Harry’s chest and straight to his cock. He pulled Harry to him by the belt loops, pressing their erections together. Harry turned them around so he had Niall pressed against the wall, like the stranger had done—but better. Harry knew exactly what Niall liked. He was the only one who got to know that.

Niall hooked one of his legs over Harry’s hip and Harry lifted him up with the other, holding up all his weight. He dragged his cock between Niall’s legs until it pressed against the loose material of his shorts and nestled in between his arse cheeks.

“Want to fuck you right here,” Harry groaned.

“Do it,” Niall said. “You haven’t been recognized tonight, have you? No paparazzi in Michigan, are there?”

That was a terrible idea, but Harry couldn’t help jerking his hips against him. “Only takes one camera phone—“

“No line for the loo anymore,” Niall said.

 _That_ wasn’t such a terrible idea. Harry firmed up his hold on Niall and carried him across the hall to the toilets. There was a bloke at the urinals and another one at the sink, both of whom glared at them as Harry took Niall into the handicapped cubicle and kicked the door shut behind them. “There’s a room _for_ that,” one of the blokes muttered, which was fair enough, but if there was a photo worse than he and Niall shagging against a wall, it was one that also had a bunch of other people shagging in the background.

“D’you have lube?” Harry said.

Niall reached around him and into Harry’s back pocket from which he produced a little sampler that Harry had had no idea was in there. So clever, his Niall. Harry pressed kisses across this forehead while Niall ripped open the packet with his teeth and squeezed it onto Harry’s fingers. Harry tugged down Niall’s pants and shorts to expose his arse and pressed his thumb against his pucker. He took Harry’s thumb easily, and then his forefinger. “You’re so open,” Harry said. He’d fucked him before the show, but that was hours ago.

“I fingered myself a bit earlier.” Niall gasped as Harry stroked his prostate. “Thinking of you, trying to—” He let out a low whine.

“What?”

“Trying to get in the mood for somebody else.”

“Mine,” Harry growled, adding a third finger to his arse without warning.  Niall jerked with a burst of precome, darkening a circle on Niall’s shorts. With his free hand, Harry rubbed Niall’s cockhead, obscenely distinct through the fabric.

“I’m ready,” Niall said.

“You aren’t,” said Harry, because three fingers really wasn’t the half of it.

“Want to feel it later.” Niall pulled his head down to his and sucked the groan out of his mouth.

Harry got the condom out of his front pocket, spread it on his cock, hefted Niall a little higher, and slowly pushed inside. Harry didn’t last long—hadn’t yet lasted very long with Niall, but he wasn’t bothered. Niall didn’t seem to mind, didn’t last long himself, and Harry had plenty of time with him to prove his long game.

The next night they were out again, this time at a lively club in Canada. Louis and Harry had the attention of an incredibly hot pair of ginger twins and a four-way didn’t seem out of the question. That was a line he’d never planned to cross with Louis, but concessions had to be made for twins. One of them was apparently very interested in his belt, playing with the extra long end of it, brushing her hands against his bulge every few moments, smiling at him from under her eyelashes.

Out of nowhere, Niall appeared between the girls. He waved at Harry and Louis, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Heading home, lads.”

The twins both turned their gazes on him, gave him a quick onceover and dismissed him as nothing special. _Really?_ Harry thought, suddenly annoyed at them. He would have been annoyed if they had been interested in Niall, too, but at least he would have respected their good taste.

“Righto, Nialler,” Louis said.

Niall turned and within a second he was swallowed up by the crowd. Harry’s twin took a step toward him and dragged her nails lightly up his side.

But suddenly it was like his sex drive was connected to Niall’s proximity and the farther away he went, the less Harry wanted to be here.

“I’m off, too, actually,” Harry said.

“Yeah,” Louis drawled, twisting his twin’s hair around his finger. “How about we all—”

Harry got on his tiptoes to speak right in Louis’ ear: “You’ll take them both, yeah?”

Louis frowned at him. “Where—”

“Bit knackered,” Harry said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I think I’ll just play some Xbox with Payno and go to bed.”

The twins looked at him like he was properly mad. Maybe he was, because he actually planned to pound Niall through the mattress before bed, but by the time he caught up with him, _Niall_ was playing Xbox with Liam and all Harry ended up doing was curling up next to him on the couch and falling asleep against his shoulder.

And he wasn’t disappointed, not even as Louis crowed over his shag, which ended up being with the twins _and_ their roommate. He asked Louis about it later. They were in some small town in Connecticut, walking along a river near the theater during the couple hours they had free that afternoon. Louis and Eleanor had an open relationship, one that worked much better than Harry ever thought it would, and now had no idea _how_. “He’s given me a free pass! Why don’t I want to use it?”

“This isn’t rocket surgery, Harry. You like him. That’s all. If El was here, do you think I’d have looked twice at that matching set of airheads?”

“No?”

“You’re not sure? You _are_ mad, then. No _way_. It’s just easier not to be a monk when she’s not here.”

“But that would mean—Niall and I—”

“Aren’t you, though?”

“It’s barely been two weeks!” Agitated, Harry shook out his hair and pressed it back.

“Come on, Harry,” Louis said, knocking shoulders with him. “More like two years.”

Harry thought about that for the rest of their walk and for the rest of the night, until Kendall was telling the buses to take them somewhere to party in Hartford. Liam wasn’t much for clubs back then, but Louis made him come out with him and Zayn, giving Harry and Niall the run of the bus for at least a few hours. “Are you sure you don’t—”

Harry cut Niall off with a kiss. “I’m sure.”

They put a _Friends_ DVD on the telly, but it wasn’t long before they were more focused on sneaking kisses onto unexpected body parts. In the end, it was the easiest thing in the world to say, “You know how—you’re mine?” Niall grinned like he’d never heard something so wonderful. “What if I’m yours, as well?”

Niall gasped and looked away from him. “You mean it?”

Harry just nodded. Between one second and another, Niall went from Niall, warm, happy, sunshiny Niall, to predator, all dark gaze and determined movements, lifting Harry up and turning him around, pressing him tight between the back of the couch and the solid weight of his body.

“You’re mine, Harry. Is that right?”

Harry groaned. “Yours.”

“I’m going to fuck you,” Niall said, pressing the hard outline of his cock against Harry’s arse through their clothes. “Have you ever been fucked before?”

“No,” Harry groaned. He’d been with a handful of boys, but he’d always been on top, never even considered the alternative. But the thought of Niall fucking him was unbearably hot right now, hotter than the thought of fucking Niall.

“I’m going to fuck you so well you’re never going to want anything else,” Niall said.

He pulled Harry’s pants down and for a moment Harry panicked that Niall planned to thrust right in, but Niall immediately dropped to his knees, spread Harry’s cheeks, and licked a long stripe over his crease.

After a while Niall manhandled him onto his back, putting Harry’s knees over his shoulders. “I’m really shit at this,” said Niall, and kissed the tip of Harry’s cock.

“I doubt that very much.” He was a bloody master of the other end and was there really such a thing as a bad blowjob?

“Honestly, between my gag reflex and the braces—”

“Uh—” Harry shifted his hips backwards without meaning to.

“Don’t worry,” Niall said, grinning up at him. “I’ll be careful.”

 _Really shit_ wasn’t the right description at all. It was nothing like how Harry gave a blowjob—he had to admit his method was something of a study in masochism; he loved swallowing Niall’s cock so far that he couldn’t breathe, loved being overwhelmed with it, loved the soreness the next day, how he remembered it every time he swallowed. Niall didn’t even try to deep throat him. Instead, he took smaller sections into his mouth and did things with his tongue that Harry wouldn’t know where to start trying to replicate.

Niall pulled away just long enough to say, “We should get tested,” before sucking one of Harry’s balls into his mouth.

“For STDs?” Harry said, trying hard to focus on anything but sensation. Niall hummed in agreement. “Why?”

“Perks of being clean and exclusive,” Niall said, sitting up so his cock was at level with Harry’s arse, running his leaking cockhead over Harry’s pucker. He couldn’t see it, but he could imagine how hot that looked, loved the sticky wetness, the idea of being painted with Niall’s come. “No condoms.”

Niall ducked back down to lick him clean. Harry whimpered as a spike of pleasure shot through him and he came for the first of four times before Niall was done with him.

Holding him that night, Harry understood for the first time why Niall made him promise to remember that he was Harry’s. Niall was putting his happiness in Harry’s care. It was a responsibility, and a privilege, and very fucking terrifying, especially now that Harry knew his own happiness depended on Niall. It was easier, depending on a lot of people, dispersing his happiness, but Niall was so much better at it that that really wasn’t any option anymore.

“I never thought I’d have this,” Niall whispered against his neck. “I never even let myself hope for it.”

“Why not?”

“You could have anyone,” Niall said, even more quietly than before.

How ridiculous! It made Harry feel a bit shit, thinking of Niall silently, steadily wanting this while Harry stumbled his way here, but he’d come as fast as he could, he thought, considering. Niall could have been a bit more helpful.

Harry ran his hand down Niall’s back, savoring the curve of each vertebrae. “Why bother?”

And that’s how it was the rest of their relationship. It wasn’t that Harry was never tempted. They met the most beautiful people in the world every day and most of them would have agreed to anything Harry asked for. But he played it out in his mind, imagined the best-case scenario of shagging someone else, played it against doing something—anything—with Niall instead, and always came to the same conclusion. What could possibly be better than Niall?

But he’d let him go and someone else had picked him up. Josh had clearly also came to Harry’s conclusion and wasn’t that was the most frustrating thing _ever?_ Because on the one hand, if Niall were dating someone who didn’t appreciate him, Harry would have probably had to kill them, but on the other, Harry would have gotten to kill that asshole and Niall wouldn’t be dating anyone else.

He and Josh weren’t obvious about dating. They had always been friends. Josh was supposed to be teaching Niall how to play the drums, although Niall was still very bad at it a year later. Harry wasn’t surprised that he missed it, but now that he was looking for it . . .

They made sure to eat a meal together, sometimes alone, usually not. Josh was slyly affectionate, squeezing Niall’s knee under the table, brushing his arm, and sometimes touching his face or his hair if there was enough justification for it. Niall wasn’t as good at being subtle. Whenever Josh touched him, he stopped in his tracks—stopped talking, stopped laughing, stopped focusing on anyone else, and smiled at Josh. Harry got a little obsessed with watching them when they all sat down to eat. When would Niall smile? Where had Josh touched him to make him look like that?

Late one night—more like early the next morning at this point, past four AM—when Niall and Josh were still out somewhere, just the two of them, Harry asked the rest of the lads, “Do you think Josh is a better boyfriend than I was?”

“No!” Liam said instantly. Louis and Zayn stared at him like he was mad. “No, I mean, ‘no, I refuse to answer that,’ like—”

“Fuck the lot of you!” Harry moaned into his hands. “He is not!”

“What’s it matter if he is?” Zayn said.

Harry just moaned again. Louis wedged a leg around Harry so he could sit down behind him and wrap his arms around him. “If it matters,” he said, “what are you doing about it?”

The low point came not long after that. Taylor came for a visit and made friends with Josh while Harry was finishing something up before they could leave for dinner. She announced that she’d invited him along and then said, “Why don’t you invite Niall?” Josh shrugged and went off to ask him.

Taylor grabbed Harry by the arm. “I think he and Niall might be—” She waggled her eyebrows. “Have you noticed anything? Wouldn’t that be sweet?”

Harry kissed her because there was no other way to respond that wouldn’t make her break up with him on the spot.

Dinner was bad enough, endless touching and smiling, but it got worse. They ended the night watching some romantic comedy in Taylor’s hotel room. When the credits rolled Harry was barely awake, so he wasn’t surprised to hear the sound of Niall’s gentle snoring coming from the other end of the couch. He looked at them as Taylor turned the lights back on and his heart stopped at the sight of Niall in Josh’s arms. Niall’s whole body was tucked under Josh’s arm, his head under Josh’s chin, his fingers under Josh’s knee. For a moment Harry fixated on Niall’s thumb, the distinctive jut of the tip, the tender skin where it connected with his forefinger, the short, even length of his nail, pressed against Josh’s stupid leg.

Harry wanted him so much.

Harry _loved_ him _so_ much.

Harry had never told him. He hadn’t even realized it himself, maybe, what all his feelings added up to. More than that, though, he realized how important it was to him that Niall loved him back. He wanted to earn that love every day. Niall’s appreciation was his best possible reward for living a good life. He wanted Niall’s kiss every morning. He wanted Niall’s laughter at the end of every joke.

Harry had made a mistake. Four months later, now he was sure. One Direction was important to him, but not as important as Niall. It couldn’t be. None of it was worth it without him.

He would fix this.

  

  

**He was long gone when he met her**

Breaking up with Taylor was harder than Harry thought it would be (because he was an idiot, and a selfish one). It didn’t matter how sweet she was, how funny and talented and hot, how completely what he was looking for not too long ago—falling in love with her was never a possibility. His heart wasn’t available. She was a tool, a prop.

He forgot she didn’t know that. 

  

  

**So come on, baby**

He wanted it folky, he told Savan and Carl, thinking of “Through the Dark” and how much Niall loved how it was turning out. “Mumford and Sonsy. I want strumming that makes you itch to pick up a guitar, and a beat that you want to stomp to, the whole stadium shaking with it, and a chorus that we all belt out in unison, so the audience will sound amazing shouting back at us because they’re feeling it in their bones—an _anthem_. Does that make sense?”

They both smiled at him like he was a little boy who’d asked them to lasso the moon. Quite rightly. But he knew what he wanted and he knew they could help him get it.

“What’s it about?” Carl said.

“Love. About a perfect love that I lost and I need to win _back_. Does _that_ make sense?”

His eyes softened and he was lucky they were both so fond of him. “Crystal clear, Harry. Sad, but determined. I think we have something for you.”

They played him some samples of music with lots of strings and a heavy beat, just what he was hoping for.

All it needed was the words.

And Harry had those. He would find them, the perfect ones for their perfect love— _relationship_ , goddammit, lovers, boyfriends, partners, any name you wanted, all of them—because Niall deserved all the words Harry could wrench out of his soul.

  

  

**I don't care what people say when we're together**

A lot of the words were more about Josh than they were about Niall, but he was okay with that. Every word in “Something Great,” were for Niall, too, written all alone in a too-big bed in Cheshire over Christmas, right after they ended things, when it was too much to even text him outside the group message they had going with the rest of the band.

Maura had invited Harry and his family to Ireland for New Years, which had hit him like a punch in the stomach. He and Niall were friends again, so he should have been happy to go. But he wasn't. Being so close to Niall, maybe sleeping in the same room, sharing his tiny childhood bed like they had before they were together—it sounded like torture. Niall was apparently happy to have him, so apparently it didn't sound like torture to him. Apparently he was over it. Or maybe he'd never told his mum that there had been more between them for a while, so she had no idea it would be awkward. Maybe they hadn’t been important enough to Niall to tell her about. Nine months wasn’t that long, in the end, was it? Just a blip in their long, successful lives.

“You’re quite an idiot, aren’t you?” Gemma had told him, petting his hair.

“I know, I know. I never should have started something with him.”

Gemma sighed. “No, that’s not why you’re an idiot.”

 _getting him back_ , he texted her as he started working on lyrics.

 _Still an idiot_ , she wrote back immediately. _You’re lucky he’s got such bad taste_. Harry grinned, feeling a little more likely to succeed.

He had the song mostly finished as they finished rehearsals for the Take Me Home tour. He had it mostly finished for three days before he managed to find the balls to ask Niall to listen to it. He and the rest of the lads were stacking apples into a pyramid for some unknown purpose when Harry found them in the break room.

“Niall,” Harry said. Everyone looked up at him. “Could I talk to you alone for a—?”

After a long moment, Niall said, “Sure,” standing up. “Yeah, of course.” Harry led him into one of the dressing rooms and shut the door. There was a couch and two chairs at the front of the room. Niall flopped onto the couch. Harry debated where he should sit for a moment and decided to stay standing.

Niall brushed his arm. “Are you okay?”

“I mean to be,” Harry said. He shook out his hair and smoothed it back. “I want you to listen to a song I’ve written.”

“It’s not ‘Something Great,’ is it?” Niall said, quickly. “Because I’ve heard that one. Not that—it—it really is something great, Harry, but I—I’ve heard it.” He smiled tightly, looking away from him.

Oh, fuck. When he wrote it, Harry hadn't considered how hard it would be for Niall to hear, “I want you here with me, like how I pictured it, so I don't have to keep imagining,” knowing that he couldn't go to Harry, that he couldn't do anything to make either of them feel better.

Harry coughed. “No, it’s something else.”

Niall nodded. “Great! Sure.”

Out of a manila folder, Harry pulled a fresh copy of the music for guitar and voice, none of the words penciled in, and handed it to him. Niall looked at for it for a moment and Harry watched him follow the first few measures, plucking the air with three fingers.

“I love this,” Niall said.

Harry laughed, feeling like bubbles were bursting out of his chest. “I thought you would.”

They smiled at each other—for too long, Harry realized, when Niall cocked his head saying, “D’you want to sing what you’ve got or—?”

“Yeah!” Harry said, looking down at his own music, taping out the first eight beats with his foot. “Yeah, okay, here we go. _You don’t understand—you don’t understand what you do to me when you hold his hand. We were meant to be, but a twist of fate made it so we had to walk away_. That’s how it starts.”

Niall wouldn’t look at him, just kept staring down at the sheet music. Harry wished he hadn’t given it to him now.

“Shall I—?”

“Keep going, yeah,” Niall said. His knee was bouncing wildly under the music paper.

“Then it goes _oh-oh-oh-oh, oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh-oh_ —um, except with lyrics, I don’t—” Niall still wouldn’t look at him, didn’t even crack a grin. Harry looked down at his own music. “ _Oh-oh-oh-oh, oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh-ohh—I don't care what people say when we're together! You know I want to be the one who hold you when you sleep. I just want it to be you and I forever._ _I know you want to leave so come on, baby, be with me so happily_.”

Harry stopped again. “Is that ‘you and I’ line meant to be a reference to, um, Louis’ and Liam’s song? _That_ , forever?” Niall asked. His voice was wrecked. Harry was at once delighted that he caught that reference and concerned that he’d made Niall sound so close to tears.

“Yeah!” he said. “Thought it was a nice callback.”

“It is.” Niall cleared his throat. “Second verse?”

“ _It’s four AM and I know that you’re with him. I wonder if he knows that I touched your skin. And if he feels my traces in your hair, I’m sorry, love, but I don’t really care._ ”

“And then the pre-chorus and the chorus again?” Harry nodded. “Third verse?”

“No, just a bridge, I think—don’t have that ready, yet, either—and the chorus again.”

Niall stood up. “Okay. Yeah. Thanks for—” He all but ran to the door.

“What do you think?” Harry said, following him.

“Harry, I’m sorry, I—I need some time,” Niall said, and left.

Harry felt all the strength leave his legs. He stumbled backwards, toward a chair, and collapsed into it.

There it was. Harry and laid it all on the table, cut out his heart—we’re meant to be, he told him, and he didn’t care what people said, and Niall had walked away—again.

  

  

**I’m sorry, love, but I**

As it happened, “some time” was about fifteen minutes.

Harry hadn’t moved. He’d just ripped up the sheet music—not that he could get rid of the song now. Carl and Savan would never let him. It would follow him around for the rest his life, this song, this stabbing regret—and pulled out his phone, texting a dozen people with the hope that someone would get back to him quickly and distract him.

He startled at a knock at the door. Harry looked up expecting Paul or maybe Josh here to punch him in the face, but it was Niall, panting a little, holding an acoustic guitar in one hand.

“Hi,” he said, sitting up straight. “I’m sorry—”

“I hope not,” Niall said. “I’ve worked out something for your pre-chorus.”

Harry couldn’t breathe. “You have?”

Niall nodded, sitting down and settling his guitar on his lap. “You want to hear it?”

All Harry meant to do was nod, but he managed to fall off his chair in the process. He righted himself and sat down next to Niall on the couch, a safe several feet away from him. “Yes,” Harry said. “I want to, please, yes.”

“Okay, you clap.” Niall clapped the beat against his guitar and Harry took it up as Niall nodded again. He started playing. Then he sang, clear and beautiful, “ _We’re on fire. We are on fire. We’re on fire now. Yeah, we’re on fire. We are on fire. We’re on fire now_ —”

Harry could hear the chorus burst out after that so clearly. It was exquisite. He was going to throw up. “That’s, uh—”

“And I thought we could play with that for the bridge, too.”

“Oh, yeah! That would—be good to—make it—” Harry gestured wildly.

“That’s what I thought! I’ll sing it once and then you come in with harmony, yeah? And then we’ll sing it a third time and that’s the bridge.” Harry just nodded. “ _Oh, oh, oh. Oh, oh, oh, oh—_ I didn’t think your stand-in lyrics were so bad, really—” He grinned and started over.“ _Oh, oh, oh. Oh, oh, oh, oh. We’re on fire now._ ” Niall pointed at Harry and he opened his mouth to sing it with him. They sounded amazing together, as always.

They sang it again and then there it was again, the chorus, begging to be sung. It was perfect. It was musical genius, the feeling of inevitability that came from something really, really good.

Niall rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s simple, but—”

“It’s amazing.”

Niall flushed. “It’s a great song, Harry. I think it’s going to be the best on the album.”

“I wrote it for you.”

“No!” Niall laughed, looking down at his guitar. “I hadn’t noticed.”

What did he think of that? What did he _want_? For once Harry resented Niall’s unending good mood and positivity.

“Do—do you—”

Niall looked at him with a soft smile, little frown, wide eyes: amazement. “I’ve never seen you like this.” Niall slowly stood up, crossed the space between them, and sat again right next to Harry. “I thought you knew I wanted to leave.” He started to sing, “So come on, baby, be with me so—”

Harry surged forward to kiss him. He had never felt something so good as Niall’s mouth on his after so long, the feeling of kissing him and knowing it was allowed, it was completely right, and he could do it again, and again, as much as he wanted, whenever he wanted.

“Everything Simon said—nothing’s changed,” he said against Niall’s mouth.

“Except what you want to do about it. That’s everything.”

“I love you. I don’t think I ever told you that. It was really bothering me, actually.”

Niall broke down giggling, putting his arms around Harry and holding him tight. “I knew that. I love you, too.”

Harry had known that once, but the fear had been building up in him steadily, like his blood turning solid in his veins. “Haven’t gotten over me, then?” he said, hoping he sounded flippant.

Whether he did or not, Niall certainly didn’t take it that way. He ran his hands through Harry’s hair and gripped it tight, pulling just a little, making him feel it. “Never. Harry, _never_. All right? You could have waited a decade to do this and I would have reacted the same.”

Harry laughed. His secret dream: realized. Harry was glad he didn’t make them wait. He kissed him again, and pulled him half on his lap. They didn’t have time for much, but he pulled both their cocks out of their trousers and stroked them slowly, never letting Niall’s mouth go far from his.

Harry stayed up late that night, making all the final touches to the music, reconsidering harmonies, deciding on parts, and grappling with a title.

“You’re still at it?” Niall said when he woke up in the wee hours. Truth be told, Harry had probably spent the majority of the night watching Niall sleep. He looked so good tucked into Harry’s arm, wrapped up in Harry’s sheets.

“I need a title,” Harry told him.

“Happily,” Niall said, kissing his chest and rolling over. “ _Obviously_.”

Harry grinned. Obviously happily was right.

Harry might have been a bit biased, but the first time the five of them all sang the bridge together was nothing short of incandescent. While the rest of them continued to sing the chorus, Harry straddled Niall’s lap, cupped his face in his hands, and snogged the hell out of him.

“You really wrote that in fifteen minutes?” he said, kissing along Niall’s jaw.

“I wrote that in about two minutes, actually.”

“What were you doing for the other thirteen?”

“Breaking up with Josh, of course! I couldn’t take you back while I was still seeing him, could I?”

“Is that why you were so awkward while I was singing to you?”

“ _I_ was—you say _I_ was awkward? You were so much more awkward! But yes, that’s why. I wouldn’t let myself be a cheater, but—honestly, it felt like my arms were going to fall right off I didn’t get them wrapped around you soon.”

“I thought you hated it. I thought—”

Niall rubbed his back. “Poor Hazza. I don’t know why you felt the need to make a big production about it at all. You didn’t do anything wrong ending things, you know. You were the one to say it, but if you hadn’t, I would’ve.”

“You would have?”

And _that_ was why Harry had to make a big production about it. Even the idea that Niall had wanted to end things, too, made him feel sick.  It must have been so much worse to actually hear the words.

“Well . . . probably. I would have known I should, anyway. Make the band stronger, make our lives simpler, all that.”

“And now?”

“Fuck it. Let’s just be— _you and I_ and see how it goes.” Harry didn’t like the sound of _see how it goes_. Niall laughed, reading his face, and took his hand. “I know how _this_ is going to go. I mean let’s see how it goes for everybody else.”

  

  

**I wonder if he knows that I touched your skin**

“Oh, shit.”

“What’s wrong, babe?” Niall said, stretching his foot out to pat Harry’s thigh comfortingly.

They were at Niall’s flat in their building in London and it was one of their last nights at home before they started the UK leg of the new tour. They were sitting naked at the kitchen table, eating leftover curry takeaway out of the cartons. They had to be at an interview in just a less than five hours, but if shagging him had taught Harry anything new about Niall, it was that you had to feed him after he came, before he went to sleep, or he’d wake up in the middle of the night, starving and helpless, and wake Harry up, too.

“I just realized how much drumming Josh is going to have to do in this song.” Niall squinted at him like, _You_ just _realized that?_  “He’s going to have to rock out to me stealing his boyfriend back about a thousand times. Have I lost us our drummer?”

“Maybe,” Niall said, frowning around a bite of chicken. “And he’s _so good_ , too . . .”

Against his will, Harry could feel jealousy pooling in his stomach. “He is, huh?”

“When I see him playing, I just want to—” Niall shuddered.

Harry’s fork was flung across the room, landing solidly in the fabric back of a chair. Fuck, he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding it so tightly. He rubbed his stinging fingers.

Niall threw his head back and laughed, and then shot up and bounced around the table, dropping into Harry’s lap and wrapping his arms around his neck. “You’re so cute. Watching him in the middle of a live show is nothing compared to watching you sing while you putter around the bus. I promise. And he’s not going to quit.”

“No?”

“He loves ‘Happily.’ He’s already seeing someone else. And he knew the deal when we started fooling around: he was my rebound. I remember he told me once, ‘You don’t even want to get over him, do you?’ I didn’t. I love being in love with you. I—I feel like this is my natural state—like loving you—”

“Like you’re half a heart without me?” Harry said, grinning.

“Fuck you,” Niall said, laying his head on Harry’s shoulder, “but yes.”

Harry put his arm around Niall’s waist to keep him in place and started feeding him bites of food.

Not long after, Niall groaned, “We have the worst timing in the world.”

“What do you mean?"

“The documentary crew is going to start following us nonstop in two days. We might not care what people say when we're together, but I don't want the whole film to be about that, you now? Can’t the _film_ be about the _band_ , at least?"

They decided to video call Morgan the next day and lay it all out on the table. The three of them chitchatted for a while and then Harry got to the point. “Niall and I are dating.”

“I'm not really shocked, guys.” Morgan smirked at them. Harry could feel himself boggling. They had not been that obvious! Especially not over the past few months Morgan had known them, when they weren’t even dating.  “Dating who?”

Aha, there it was.

“Each other,” Harry clarified. “I'm dating Niall.”

Niall gave him the loveliest grin. “He's my boyfriend.”

“Yeah, I am.” Harry darted forward and kissed his nose because it was a very nice nose and he could kiss it if he wanted to. “But we’re not planning a press release or anything and, so—in the film—we're not sure if—”

“You want to come out in 3-D?”

Harry heaved out a sigh, relieved that Morgan seemed to understand, didn’t have any hunger for an exposé in his eye. “Exactly.”

“Well, listen, the production team have all signed non-disclosure agreements. They can’t reveal anything that isn’t explicitly stated in the film and even that’s only after the film is released.  That really only gives you good grounds to sue if something comes out, but I've worked with most of these guys for years—they’re good people. And frankly, I’m not filming a single interview with any of the other guys’ girlfriends. I don't want this to be about your romantic relationships. The tabloids have that covered. This is about the five of you as a band, your families back home, your family on the road. You two as boyfriends is—very cute, by the way—but it’s beyond the scope of the film. That's my firm creative opinion and I'm sticking to it.”

“That’s—amazing,” Harry said.

“You’re amazing,” Niall said on top of him, his inner Morgan Spurlock fan boy shining through.

Morgan shrugged. “This is going to be fun, guys, I promise. All for the good.”

During editing he sent them a dozen scenes he planned for the final cut, asking if any were too on the nose. If they were any other quietly gay couple, most of the scenes would have been too much, but they were part of One Direction, so none of it was worse than the fans had already seen live. Harry was happy they’d caught a “Little Things” that wasn’t quite as obvious as most of what you could find on YouTube.

 

_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

>  **One:** Did you find a typo or other monkey business in this fic? I know it can feel rude or pushy or just weird to tell authors about that stuff, so [I made a form where you can report it anonymously](https://docs.google.com/forms/d/1--1RxNJyJCWZPaRyBeV6jtmUrcEI0zuUkDvoJoA6A_A/viewform). Thank you in advance for making a better reading experience for future readers.
> 
>  **Two:** [This is basically how I envisioned Niall's tat.](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/3752110/niall-heth.png)
> 
>  **Three:** This is what I/Niall was thinking about in reference to _The Velveteen Rabbit_ : “The Skin Horse said, ‘When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.’” Basically the whole story is about how you're not real until someone really loves you, and isn't that sweet and painful? I know.
> 
>  **Four:** I wrote a whole scene about why Niall doesn't have a credit on “Happily” but it was weird and unnecessary, so I cut it. Let's just trust that there were good reasons or in this universe he did. :)


End file.
